


A Child of Steel and Stars

by apfelgranate



Series: Line of Durin Bingo Card Shenanigans [1]
Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Tauriel/Legolas Brotp, Weird Elven Sexual Mores, possibly inaccurate elvish names, references to slut-shaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 22:18:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apfelgranate/pseuds/apfelgranate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is a knife," Tuviel says. "This is a knife to be thrown. This is a dagger. This is a sword, one-handed. This is a sword, two-handed. This is a spear. This is a bow, these are arrows."</p><p>Tauriel sort of character-study set in the bingo card shenanigans verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Child of Steel and Stars

 

 

"This is a knife," Tuviel says. She shows Tauriel the way to grip it, the way to stab and slice and make the blade sing as it curves through the air.

"This is a knife to be thrown. This is a dagger. This is a sword, one-handed. This is a sword, two-handed. This is a spear. This is a bow, these are arrows."

Tauriel watches as weapon after weapon is paraded before her, put into her hands and given purpose by Tuviel's words. She watches and wonders if this is what falling in love feels like.

The king's son watches her with a smile curving his mouth that makes her think he knows the feeling. His name is Legolas, she finds out when Tuviel sets them to train with each other, practice swords in place of real blades and grappling hands, bodies tumbling through the dirt; she laughs when she pins him to the ground, wooden blade held to his neck and he laughs as well, throws her off with a shove and a roll of his body and they start anew.

"I think you will be very good at this," Tuviel says, something like fondness and pride in her voice and Tauriel does not try to hide her smile.

\--o--

When she is well into her second century, Tauriel meets an elf who stirs a different kind of desire in her.

His name is Teren. He hails from a settlement far to the south of the Greenwood, a scholar, with a scribe's slender fingers, his hair shining like copper in the dappled sunlight. When he smiles at her, something warm and terrifying flutters in her stomach.

"Are you in love?" Tuviel asks her, gentle. Tauriel opens her mouth to reply, certain the answer must be yes; surely there is no other explanation?

But the way Tuviel regards her, eyes dark and something pinched in her expression, stays her words. She tries to imagine it, a life spent with him at her side, sharing bed and mind and body, perhaps children, one day—yet her thoughts drift away uncaring; she finds herself thinking of the slope of his shoulders instead, the arch of his naked thighs she saw while bathing, his red mouth, the line of his throat, imagines how his skin would give under the press of her fingers, the warmth of his body all around her.

"I… I don't want to marry him, I just want to have him," she finally says, and Tuviel smiles, slow and secret.

"There are ways to do that," she tells Tauriel, takes her hand and leads her to the library. "Many ways."

\--o--

Her and Legolas chase a deer once, for two full days.

It is not about the meat but about the thrill of the chase, and the hunt's song is loud and roaring in both their veins as they run through the forest, weaving around trees and ducking under branches and leaping over rocks and undergrowth; sneaking when they close in again on their prey.

In the end they take it down with knives instead of arrows, just to prove to themselves they can, the buck thrashing under their combined weight, desperate, keening and fading as their blades sink into its chest.

Legolas smiles, breathless, but still far more restrained than Tauriel's own grin. She is giddy with the rush of the hunt, with the feel of her prey under her hands, caught and theirs for the taking.

Then the spiders show up.

\--o--

There are others, after Teren.

Cellin drops to his knees before she even thinks to ask, gives her his tongue and fingers and she comes twice in the space of few minutes, gasping and hands fisted in his hair.

"Are you always this… rough?" he asks her afterward, when she has her hand on him. Tauriel stills, unsure.

"Too rough?" she murmurs, lips dragging against the skin of his neck.

"No." His legs are shaking. "Not too rough."

Estel moves inside her, gentle and controlled. It is not painful as she suspected, but not particularly enjoyable either. She waits for the sensation to cease being strange, to bring her the pleasure she assumes it brings him, yet it does not and eventually she pushes him away with a sigh.

"I apologise," he says faintly, "I had assumed…" Tauriel shrugs and kisses him, slightly annoyed with her own indifferent body but content enough to find release in other ways. Estel opens his mouth for her tongue and she tugs him closer, deepening their kiss, one hand cupping his buttock and she digs her fingers into the muscle on an impulse. Estel's breath hitches, body arching into her touch.

Tauriel's insides clench with sudden desire, fingers slipping—Tuviel told her of this, too, in a tone one reserves for indecent rumours, but with a detail that hinted at personal experience, and cautioned her, _I don't advise it, giving yourself away like that_ —yet now it seems all too alluring, a far more tempting prospect than their previous activity.

"I could have you," she offers with only slight hesitation, "if you wanted." Estel blushes as he gives her an incredulous and yet strangely hopeful look.

"You would?"

(She does. Bent over the curve of his spine, her breath wetting the hair of his neck, skin of their thighs sticky with sweat where they touch, his hand reaching back to clutch at her hip, the other clawed into the sheets while hers cannot stop moving, greedy to touch every inch of his skin; he keens like a wounded animal and something ignites in Tauriel, a fire unlike anything she has felt before burning in her veins and taking her utterly _apart_.)

There are others, after Estel.

\--o--

A twig is still tangled in Legolas' hair and a smear of dirt decorates his jaw. Tauriel is worse off, actually—but then, she is merely a member of the guard and not the prince. At least there were no spiders this time, although she doubts if orcs can be considered an improvement.

She hopes the king will be lenient, mindful of the fact that the guard is without Captain since the previous one resigned and in something of a disarray as a result, especially as he has not yet seen fit to appoint someone else to the post.

"It was very educational, Ada," Legolas concludes with an air of sincerity that would seem disingenuous on anyone else.

"Educational," echoes the king.

Tauriel cannot read the king's tone of voice at all, even less so his blank face. In retrospect she feels she has handled the situation quite well, considering that they were ambushed, outnumbered, yet came out of it largely unscathed, and she tries to project that confidence outwards.

She is not entirely sure she succeeds; her eyes keep being drawn to the trail of black blood their feet have dragged into the audience hall.

Legolas and his father appear to have a conversation entirely conveyed with eyes and brows and the quirking of lips, until the king heaves the smallest of sighs and rises languidly from his throne. He makes his way down from the pedestal on which it stands, his silver-green robes flaring behind him with a susurrus of cloth on cloth. He acknowledges his son with a nod as he passes him, then he turns his piercing gaze upon Tauriel.

Her pulse spikes.

The king steps closer, until there is a mere foot of air between their bodies.

"Tauriel. You've done well today," he says. "Which does not surprise me—I have seen you fight. Your skill is… remarkable."

"Thank you," Tauriel says, throat dry, pride a sudden glowing spark in her chest, and hastens to add, "My Lord." It still sounds like an afterthought. The king chuckles, one of his hands rising. For a split-moment she fears he will punish her for it, lashing out like a moody cat, but he only lays his hand onto her shoulder.

"My son holds your friendship in high regard. I trust you do the same?" She casts a glance at Legolas' half-turned back, the side of his face. His eyes are bright with mirth.

"Of course. My Lord." This time the pause is deliberate, and Thranduil tilts his head, a sly smile on his lips.

"Protect him, and everyone else the way you have done today," he bids her. "Tauriel, Captain of the guard."

\--o--

"I've seen you," Legolas says, the words small and quick in his mouth. His usually pale cheeks are dusky pink with blood. They have been sparring, and although Tauriel has taken great delight in running them both ragged, the strain on him is rarely this visible.

"You've seen me what," she says, panting a little. He blushes even more and averts his eyes.

"I've seen you with—with—you know what I mean," he trails off awkwardly, fingers playing with his dagger, restless. A frisson of heat slithers down Tauriel's spine as she understands. It might be shame, she thinks. It should be.

(It is not.)

"Are you concerned for my honour?" she asks him, teasing. Legolas laughs lightly, but it is a wretched sound.

"Of course not. But there is… talk."

Tauriel hates how quickly her good mood fades at those words. She slides her sword back into its sheath, harder than necessary, and crosses her arms.

"Talk about me or talk about him?" Legolas looks like he regrets ever mentioning the issue, but he soldiers on.

"About you. That your… behaviour doesn't befit a Captain of the guard." Tauriel swallows a snarl and bites her lip, glaring at the other guards training in their vicinity who seem a little too interested in their conversation.

"Is there anyone specific I can throw into the dirt until they find their sense again, or is it the usual gossip?" she asks in low tones. Legolas replies just as quietly. "It's the latter, I'm afraid. I can try to put a stop to it—"

"Don't. It would only be fanning the flames. It'll die down soon enough."

"Not if you do it again." Tauriel's body goes cold and she stares at Legolas with disbelief.

"What are you saying?"

"I—I mean you should weigh the benefits and detriments," he elaborates, gaze fixed to a point somewhere over her shoulder, his expression pained. She looks at him, unable to determine if the sudden ice in her stomach is anger or something else, but of one thing she is certain; she slings an arm about his shoulders, dragging his head close to whisper into his ear.

"The benefits are _legion_."

\--o--

The dwarf snarls at her, desperately reaching for the blond one who spits curses just as viciously. They seem young to her, her who has never seen dwarves in the flesh before, and they are gaunt with hunger. Tauriel huffs in frustration, grabs both of them by the collar and shoves them into one cell.

They confound her, all of them do. It is not merely that their appearance is so very different from elves, although that is certainly part of it—she is not used to faces half-hidden by beards, only by masks of indifference—but that they are so wild, so unbridled in their emotions that even their shuttered faces betray more feeling than some elves ever display.

It seems they rouse Thranduil in unexpected ways as well, a frustration brimming just under the surface of his skin, an angry glint in his eyes more often than not, face tight with tension every time the dwarves refuse to disclose their intentions.

The dwarf they had caught first is dragged into one of the smaller halls and Thranduil orders the guards to strip him until he is left in his breeches, then to secure him to a wooden post, his naked back bared to the room. Tauriel's stomach churns with the thought of what is to come. Haleth stands beside her, back straight and arms relaxed, a vinegar-drenched coil of whip in her hand. She knows her craft well, able to inflict a great amount of pain without causing severe or permanent injury. The knowledge does nothing to soothe Tauriel's roiling stomach, the sharp acidic smell of the vinegar stinging in her nose.

Thranduil stands over the dwarf, introduces him to Haleth with a sickeningly genial air and informs him of his predicament; cooperation or punishment.

For a moment, Tauriel can see naked fear in the dwarf's eyes, then they thin with anger and his face darkens. He shakes his head, wordlessly.

The first strike is mostly sound, barely swiping his skin, yet Tauriel already feels she might be sick.

The second and third are not. Neither is the fourth nor the fifth.

Tauriel stays Haleth' hand with her own before she can think better of it. The next strike hits the ground two feet left of the dwarf, and he flinches violently with the snapping sound, despite being secured.

"A—apologies, my lord," she calls into the sudden silence, letting go of Haleth' wrist as if burnt and unable to meet Thranduil's eyes. She switches to Sindarin. "I think—that is, I am very confident that you would have more success with… kindness. A wild animal responds better to a treat than to blows, and you said yourself that they are incredibly stubborn creatures."

It is terribly quiet, for the longest time. The only sound is the dwarf's fast, shallow breaths and something in Tauriel's belly flips as she looks at his bloodied back.

"Very well," says Thranduil finally. He is smiling, she is stunned to realise.

\--o--

This is the detriment.

"And you think that gives you leave to question me? That I asked your 'aid' to find release?"

Astar does not answer, instead his lips curve into a haughty smirk, but tension is carved into every inch of his skin. There are others watching, listening and undoubtedly silently judging, their dispute dragged into public. Some of the doors leading to the prisoners' cells are not entirely closed. Perhaps even they are witness to this.

Tauriel gives him a grin that is all teeth.

"I could have you, right here and now, and take my pleasure _thrice_ before you came even within an _inch_ of your own release," she says, low and with an anger that is like a quiet knife. It is utterly gratifying to watch how quickly his rotten smirk disappears.

Part of her wishes he would ask her to prove it, because he was warm and writhing against her when they laid together and he made the loveliest noises, but the rest of her takes far more pleasure in the way his face twists in impotent fury.

She turns to Lia, who stands closest and whose expression carries the slightest hint of admiration. "Find him some drudgery, in the kitchens if it comes to that. He's not touching a blade for a month."

\--o--

Thranduil orders his host to march east three days after news of the dragon's death have reached Mirkwood. Tauriel spends those three days without sleep, running errand after errand for an old general by the name of Vëo, whom she has never even seen before. He had been given the task of organising the supply of armour and weapons for the army, the division of forces and the choice of who is to lead which contingent.

It galls her. She knows she is not a soldier trained for war, but she is still the Captain of the guard, possessing all the skills such a task requires, and it feels like Thranduil is casting her aside in favour of a new confidant.

He has her called to him on the morning of the third day. The study is empty save for him and his closest attendant when she arrives. Tauriel's throat is tight with nerves, fearing the worst, that he will tell her she has squandered his favour beyond hope of regaining it after the dwarves' escape.

"Gossip travels fast and far," Thranduil says once she stands before him, his tone strangely casual. She remains quiet. He regards her for a long moment, his eyes clear and sharp beneath heavy brows.

"Vëo has seen many battles. He is a very capable strategist, and he is one of the best war makers I have ever encountered." Tauriel frowns slightly in confusion.

"Vëo is Astar's father," Thranduil explains, and her stomach drops. "As such, he is prejudiced against you, and I have not been able to convince him of your admirable qualities. And as much as I wish otherwise, I cannot afford to have half my court doubt me because I valued an elf who has not seen her sixth century completed higher than him. I cannot give you a command under these circumstances."

"I understand," Tauriel says tonelessly, her gaze drifting to the ground against her will.

"You shall fight as my shade, instead." She looks up in surprise.

"We both know you are death made flesh and bone," says Thranduil quietly, the hint of a smile playing around the corners of his mouth, "and I would have you by my side in this."

Tauriel's face hurts with how much she wants to grin. She bows sharply. "Thank you."

\--o--

Tauriel has seen the night sky before, but the glimpses of star-studded darkness she has caught in the depths of Mirkwood, though beautiful, pale in comparison to this: The wide, limitless expanse of pitch-dark blue, countless stars scattered across it like jewels thrown on cloth, fading to deep purple at the horizon, the moon hanging fat and yellow, seeming close enough to touch, and she does not reach out although she wants to, instead she watches its travel across the sky until day bleeds red and cold into the night and—

—she feels like her chest opens up to allow something to wriggle inside and curl around her heart.

It must be longing, she thinks, for so much space that if she wanted to run she would never have to stop. The Mirkwood is a huge, sprawling thing and she has barely seen half of it in all her years, but it is also small and close and dense and this, this must be what looking at the western sea is like for the Sindarin, such is the fierceness of this longing.

As the host continues on its march, Tauriel resigns herself to it, determined not to mourn this strange new homesickness she may never heal. War lies ahead.

\--o--

After the second dwarven army arrived, the sun high and peaking, the sounds of their horns and war drums ringing out over the plain like a new dawn came early, Thranduil cut her loose of shade-bonds.

"Do a reaper's work," he had said and Tauriel had obeyed. She has lost count of the killing blows her hands have dealt, her armour spattered with dark blood and viscera, her quiver long empty. Her daggers might never be clean again. She is death made flesh and bone, blood and sinew, Thranduil's voice echoing in her head, yet she has never felt the hands of death so plainly upon her own face as she does on that day.

Never before has she come so close to falling into death' arms herself.

She whirls and comes face to face with an orc, its sallow arms raised to strike a killing blow, and she is not fast enough, not quick enough to deflect the blow that is sure to cave in her sternum—

—the orc suddenly freezes, an awful noise escaping its throat, spitting blood. Tauriel's heart stalls, only to resume beating at a painfully frantic pace as the orc crumples, spiky club falling uselessly to the ground, and she sees a dwarf ripping back the axe that has split open its back.

"Thank you," she breathes, even though there should be no time for gratitude, much less an inclination to it, but the dwarf—a dwarf woman, Tauriel thinks, looking at the whiskered cheeks, the dark beard braided with golden thread—gives her a smirk, slinging the axe onto her shoulder.

"You're welcome," she rumbles.

Tauriel does not think she will see her again, so quickly does she lose sight of her in the fray, but late in the day when the sky is red as blood and they have won, she catches a glimpse of golden thread glinting amidst dark tresses.

The dwarf is bent over a small body, whose blood-dirty tawny hair is fanned out over the ground. There are two more, dark-haired but just as bloody and Tauriel freezes as she recognises her former prisoners.

"Are they—do they live?" she asks despite herself and the dwarf woman flinches, spinning around. Her eyes are reddened, shining wetly.

"Barely," she grits out as she moves to heave one of them onto her shoulders. Tauriel reaches out to help her, only to jerk back when the dwarf growls at her.

"Please let me," Tauriel implores her. "You saved my life." The dwarf swallows heavily, like she is choking back a sob and nods sharply.

"Take him," she mutters, pointing at the oldest one.

Together they hoist the two young ones onto the dwarf's broad shoulders, then Tauriel lifts the third one into her arms, his head lolling back in unconsciousness. They do not talk as they make their way through the field, corpses strewn everywhere, blood drenching the ground, a terrible stench of death thick in the air, and Tauriel tries to breathe through her mouth as she trails after the dwarf to a makeshift camp.

She carefully lays the body down where the dwarf tells her, and as she straightens again, the dwarf grabs her wrist, smearing blood on the vambrace.

"Whatever debt it is you believe to owe me," she says, her voice deep and clear, "it is paid." Tauriel frowns, caught off guard by the dwarf's sincere insistence. She has carried a dying man from the battlefield after it was no longer a battle, his blood is on her armour and soaking her clothes and she doubts he will survive the night—how can this repay one life?

"But—"

"No," she whispers, "it is done. Go, look after your people."

Tauriel casts one last glance at the three broken, bleeding bodies laid out on the ground, how they look so very small and fragile, then turns and leaves on swift feet to find Legolas, Tuviel, and all others she holds dear.

**Author's Note:**

> The name is not mentioned in the fic, but the dwarf who saves Tauriel's life in the last scene is Dís.


End file.
